Reflections of the Soul
by taylor4340
Summary: To help one, we must sacrifice another. And maybe in the end, it would just be easier to lose it all. DM/HP soulmate AU
1. Chapter One

**A/N:** (before i say anything else, i would like to put a notice that this is rated m purely for language. i didn't want to take out the swears and make them more censored, but i figured rating it t might be pushing it on this site.)okay, so basically, this is the first drarry fic i've actually gotten far enough into to call it an actual drarry fic. i would love any and all feedback. i'm mostly posting on this site as something of an experiment (i've also posted this on ao3, and i plan to see which site it progresses further on, if it really goes anywhere at all). so, yeah, feedback is much appreciated! i hope you enjoy!

* * *

They say that not everybody is born with a soulmate, but those that are have had the same soulmate for all eternity. Through life, through death, and springing into the seeds of rebirth. It's a cycle, see; it never ends.

It's an ancient magic, one that comes from the beginnings of time. Nobody knows where, exactly, magic itself comes from, and it's similar to the age-old war of gods and humanity. Somehow, it happened, and the magic of soulmates was a part of the package, sealed tight with a pretty little bow.

Rebirth isn't something every witch or wizard believes in, but it's a thing that's been passed through generations. Nobody has proof of anything, and yet so many believe in it.

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, however, have great reason to believe in the theory of rebirth.

When their son, Draco, was born, it was a shock to see a tiny, hardly noticeable at all, white crescent moon in the centre of his right hand. This was hardly a normal birthmark, with the placements and the shape and the way it sometimes glowed while Draco slept. It took research, but they found the story behind it.

Soulmates, born with a distinct marking of one thing opposite their soulmate's, will be Bonded when their dominant hands touch and their marks react with each other.

Lucius wasn't pleased with the information, and this much was apparent to any and all who saw him.

"What of marrying a Pureblood?" he asked Narcissa angrily. "We cannot have a proper heir is this "soulmate" turns out to be a Mudblood."

"Not everyone who falls in love must wind up married," Narcissa reassured. "A contracted marriage wouldn't be impossible to set up."

Her husband was silent, and Narcissa wondered if maybe she wouldn't mind seeing her son fall in love with someone that was "perfect" for him. After all, it's a chance not many get to have. Goodness knows she didn't. Of course, she loves Lucius—she did then and she does now-but they aren't exactly a match made in heaven. Anybody could tell you that. Love is a silly thing, tossing you and turning you and pushing you to fall. She wants this for her son, the boy she watches as he sleeps and feels a surge of warmth flow through her. This is her family. She chose it, and she loves it, and she wants happiness for it. Even if that happiness comes from some fabled soulmate

Draco was seven when he learnt the entire truth behind being one half of something so special. His mother who always told him stories to fall asleep and remember, looked down at his tiny hand and smiled sadly.

"My cunning little dragon," she said quietly, "this birthmark is very special. Do you know why?"

Draco had leaned forward in excitement, but at his mother's question, it quickly dissipated and was replaced by a look of immense confusion. "No," he said honestly.

Narcissa traced it gently with her finger, shuddering a bit from the feeling of cool magic flowing in and around it. So young, yet so powerful. She could hardly imagine how powerful Draco would be as he grew older.

"Somewhere out there, another person has a birthmark similar to this one," Narcissa explained gently. "We don't know who just yet, but I'm certain you'll find them someday."

"Why does it matter?"

Narcissa smiled at her son. "Because, darling, that person is your soulmate."

Draco blinked, then furrowed his eyebrows. "Soulmate?"

Narcissa nodded, and launched into a brief explanation of soulmates, how one day Draco would find a person with a birthmark just like his and they would react, how it was a powerful type of magic and it was special.

"This is our secret, though, Dragon, right?" she asked, moving slim fingers over the pale cheeks of her child.

Dazed, he nodded.

And he kept quiet as well as he could.

At first, it was because his mother asked him not to. As he grew older, though, he found he just didn't want to believe it. By age thirteen, he had decided it was probably just a story. After all, they never had spoken of it again.

Draco's sixteen now, and he has bigger things on his mind than some silly soulmate. It's a wonder he still even contemplates the idea from time to time. His mother is being held at wandpoint and he's hoping for someone that's meant to be his other half. It's wrong, really.

The scariest part about the situation he's in right now is that he's doing it when he had decided that his father being put in Azkaban was good for him, and that he would turn it around from there. After all, once the source of a problem is removed, the problem can be dealt with swiftly.

Until a new one arises, that is.

They weren't supposed to go after Narcissa. She had told him herself when he confessed he didn't want to follow Lucius's path. They would watch the remaining Malfoys more carefully, because Lucius had messed up, but they wouldn't punish them severely for his mistake.

That was Narcissa's mistake.

Looking back on it, it may have been a terrible lie and not a mistake at all. Narcissa should know well the tactics of the Death Eaters, having been amongst them for many years. Draco doesn't, and he had taken his mother's words in stride, and gone about changing things. It was a practice thing, he found. If you want to take a word out of your vocabulary, you need to practice not using it. And Draco didn't want to slip up. Now, he thinks it was a small, unimportant thing, anyway. If he has to be a follower of the Dark Lord, then what use is it to try and not use slurs?

It was mid-July when they took Narcissa away, an ultimatum was given, and they left him entirely alone.

"Bring me Harry Potter," the Dark Lord had requested, voice high and cold, eyes piercing, "and you shall have your mother back."

So, of course he agreed. What did Potter mean to him, anyway?

But as he said he would, his stomach turned. He had always hated Potter. It was a simple thing. Why feel guilty over bringing him to the Dark Lord?

Because you don't want him to die, a voice in his head offers, and he shakes himself.

Of course, he doesn't want anyone to die. It's just that this feels more like he wants to put Potter above his mother, and he can't do that. He can' needs his mother. He does not need Potter.

It's been a week since he came back to Hogwarts, and things have been awful so far. Something's up with Potter, and this he knows from one glance at his glazed eyes and his slumped shoulders. And Granger and Weasley seem to be unsure of how to approach him, as if he's dangerous,and Draco wants to laugh at the thought of it.

But it's obvious that something's happened. This worries Draco, and he figures it must be because if there's something wrong with Potter, getting close enough to get him to the Dark Lord will be beyond difficult. There's no other reason. There can't be.

Draco spends his time in the library, away from prying people. Particularly Slytherins, but there are many students in general that read the article about Narcissa Malfoy going missing. How word got out at all, Draco doesn't know. Because he didn't tell, and surely no Death Eater did.

He stayed the rest of his summer with Bellatrix. It was easiest, most convenient. He didn't have to leave the Manor, and it wasn't something that would arouse suspicion if she was found to be there by anybody that wasn't supposed to know what happened to Narcissa. Keep the secret about Narcissa and Draco's mission. Nobody should know.

Yet so many do.

Draco didn't even know about this article, hidden deep within the Daily Prophet until a frowning Pansy shoved it in his face to clear up his confusion. Nobody bothered to take any action with it, to change or correct it, even though it's the most inaccurate thing Draco has ever read. The article states that Narcissa left willingly, and the columnist speculates that it may be because "her home reminds her entirely too much of her Death Eater husband." It then says that Draco is staying with family, which, yes, is entirely true, but also not, because in the article it's worded as "extended family," and not his convicted criminal of an aunt.

Pansy is his study partner, and has been for years. She's also the only person he's ever told about his birthmark and the story his mother told him about it. She had nodded solemnly when he said this, then told him, "I've heard of that. It's very rare. Not everybody gets a soulmate."

Draco knows she was jealous, and maybe she still is, at least a little bit, but he also knows that she doesn't think it's his fault.

The thing about Pansy is that she very much admires Draco, and he finds that sometimes it's a bit overwhelming. She isn't as bad, now, though, since Draco told her to back off a little over a year ago, at the end of their fourth year. But she's determined, and she's fighting a losing battle. She knows it by now, but a Slytherin doesn't just give up.

"I wonder what happened to Potter," Pansy says under her breath, watching the three Gryffindors as they come into the library, led by Granger.

Draco scowls. "Perhaps the paper didn't praise him enough throughout the summer for his great bravery at the Ministry."

"You shouldn't say that, Draco," Pansy says softly. "It looks like he's grieving, wouldn't you say? Perhaps you don't show the same outward signs when you're in pain, but someone like Potter would."

Draco stares at her. "Good grief, Pansy, don't tell me you feel sorry for him."

"I do, a little." She shrugs. "I don't think everything you dislike has to be entirely bad."

"He had my father put in Azkaban," Draco hisses. "He's the reason my mother's gone. That's no reason to pity someone."

"Blaming him won't do you any good, Draco. You realize that he didn't put your father in prison, right? Your father went to the Ministry on his own accord that night, and he paid the price for it. I'm not saying I believe in everything Potter does, but I do think that he's an entirely bad person; And he's very clearly not right. He probably needs someone who understands." Pansy gives Draco a pointed stare, and it all clicks together. Of courseshe would know. Her father wouldn't hide something like that from her.

"You think that me befriending Potter will help my situation," he says.

"It will weaken his defences. You don't form attachments easily, so you won't feel bad doing it, right? It'll take time for him to trust you, but he will eventually. He's a Gryffindor. They're all entirely too trusting."

"He hates me."

Pansy eyes Potter for a moment, then shakes her head. "No, he doesn't."

Draco doesn't know what to say.

* * *

Draco makes it his personal mission to get on Potter's good side. This won't be easy, but he knows Pansy's right. So, he's going to try. If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out.

It won't work out.

Draco doesn't care, though, if he's perfectly honest. He's going to try. It's for his mother. For his mother, who will die if he can't do this.

It has to work out.

"Potter!" he calls from behind, halting all three of the inseparable Gryffindors. Draco has to stop himself from scoffing at Potter's two tag-alongs and the way they flank him, like he's some kind of god or something.

They turn to face him, Weasley and Granger openly hostile.

But Potter—he looks terrible. Draco knew he looked bad before, but up close it seems more like he's not even alive. How long has it been since he last slept? His eyes are sunken and hollow, and he's disgustingly skinny.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" He sounds exhausted, too, to match his appearance.

Draco palm burns slightly, and he starts. Turning his hand to his face, he's amazed to see a faint outline around the crescent moon on his palm. He shakes himself, then looks back up at Potter and his friends, a tiny bit confused.

"I'm not going to stand here all day, Malfoy," Potter says, eyes narrowed. "What is it you want to say to me, exactly?"

Draco blinks, and before he can stop himself, he says, "You look awful."

Potter raises and eyebrow, and then three Gryffindors are walking away, and Draco feels like he's swallowed an entire orange.

Well, fuck, he thinks.

It won't work.

* * *

Plan B comes in the form of a note.

Draco doesn't remember what he wrote, and he doesn't want to know, because if he reads it, he'll just throw in the fire or something. Besides, he trusts that the him from the night before that wrote it was smart enough not to say anything stupid.

He's a Malfoy, after all; Malfoys don't say "stupid" things.

So when he walks past Potter and Granger in the library, he drops the note at Potter's feet. Then, he makes his way to the table Pansy is sitting at and waits.

"You're really not any good at this, are you?" She smirks, and Draco glares, but he doesn't say anything. He's holding his breath, wondering what that note says, and really wishing he had at least thought this through a bit more.

Potter folds it open curiously, and his eyes scan the paper, then he doubles over in hardly concealed laughter.

"What did you write?" Pansy hisses.

"I don't know," Draco admits, still watching Potter closely.

Potter looks up and their eyes lock, and Draco's hand sears but he can't tear his eyes away. Potter has never looked at him, and not with such a shining brightness that are in his green eyes now. They were so dull, and now they gleam with laughter and somewhere deep within his stomach, Draco knows that he brought about this glow in Potter.

"I think," Draco breathes, finally moving his gaze away, "that it worked, though."

"You stupid arse," Pansy mutters, but she's hiding a smile. "I still would like to know what you wrote."

Draco finds Potter again, and he's whispering to Granger. The note lies cast aside on the table, and Draco, too, wonders what he wrote.

Hardly realizing he's doing, he rubs his palm to ease the sharpness that ensues whenever he looks at Potter.

* * *

That night, he dreams of a man that looks disturbingly like Potter. He's saying something, but Draco can't hear it, and he's too far away to see the way his lips move. Draco calls out, reaches an arm, and so does the Potter look-alike. Their hands clasp, and light surrounds them, and Draco wakes up.

He's angry, suddenly. At Potter. This is Potter's fault. His mother would be safe if not for Potter, his father would be home if not for Potter, the Dark Lord wouldn't have it out for Draco's family if it wasn't for Potter.

And now he's dreaming about the boy?

Draco glares at the ceiling, and he wonders why it has to be him. Of all the potential people for this job, it had to be Draco. Of course Draco knows why, but it doesn't lessen the aggravation he feels at it all.

He traces the crescent moon on his palm, and a sharp pain explodes in his chest. He misses his mother. He's never had to live without his parents, and it's not an easy thing. Bellatrix is a terrible guardian, and, frankly, Draco's a bit afraid of his aunt. She's merciless, cruel, and doesn't give a damn about tearing families apart.

Neither does Voldemort.

Lucius followed the Dark Lord because he thought it was right. Because he believed in the purity of blood and wanted to see the end of Muggleborn witches and wizards.

But the Dark Lord will spill pure blood to see that he's in power, will tear apart the roots of Pureblood families and erase everything that might be a threat to him. And Draco thinks this might be something bigger than the purity of blood.

The older Draco gets, the more faults he sees with his father's ideals. He loves his parents, and his parents love him, but he doesn't need to agree with them on everything to love them. He did agree with them, once, but now he has his own experience. And he can't deny that Granger is better at magic than him, or that there are fantastic Muggleborn students within the walls of Hogwarts that Draco wouldn't even guess come from Muggle lineages.

Too many people view Slytherin House in a bad light. Draco knows Slytherins that are half-bloods, and don't care that one of their parents is a Muggle. Slytherins are not inherently Dark, and Draco thinks that things would have been so much easier if people understood this.

Draco can't do Dark Magic. He's tried, for years, and yet he's never been able to do any Dark spells that people like his father could do when he was sixteen. He knows it's awful, and that his father isn't pleased by it in the least, but he also thinks it could be better this way. Unable to perform the spells the Dark Lord wants him to will without a doubt land him away from any type of "field work."

Except for this. Because Potter is his to take, to watch crumble. Draco always thought he wanted to see Potter's fall, because all his life he watched a looming tower build up before him, and when he was finally faced with the legendary thing, he had to realize that it stood higher than he could ever reach.

But as he watches Potter, ghosts swirling in his emerald eyes, Draco wonders if it's safe to tear down a haunted tower. To tear down something sacred, and watch every memory that molded history itself scatter unto nothingness.

Draco sighs. Now he's making excuses, and he has no real reason for doing so.

He thinks he might be growing hysterical. It's getting out of hand. He keeps imagining that the birthmark that is supposed to lead him to his "soulmate" is prickling, and he's dreaming about Potter, and he really would love some kind of advice on what to do, but to whom does he turn with both his parents gone?

And in this moment, he finds his tough walls shattering, and a lonesome tear falls down his face. He can't do this. He can't.

* * *

Potter-watching is something that Draco has done for a long time, he decides as he scrutinizes the other boy from across the Great Hall. Years, maybe. Because he knows exactly the way he smiles when he's not slept well and doesn't want anybody to know, the way he eats everything slowly, as if he expects it all to be a dream. It's the way his fingers twist so elegantly around his quills and the look of deep concentration he gets on his face as he stares down at a piece of parchment. It's the way he does little things and momentarily grows very obviously panicked. The way he breathes when he's frustrated and the way he laughs through clear pain.

Potter-watching is something Draco has never meant to do before now, but his horror grows as he recognizes each little thing Potter does and only registers it with nonchalance—the "oh, yes, he's always done that" that keeps playing through his head refuses to leave. He should be surprised by the little things, these odd quirks that make Potter more human than just a name.

And yet . . . he's not.

It's terrible, really. He's not supposed to be admiring Potter. So why the fuck is he?

His parents taught him well how to keep his emotions in check. He's a fantastic Occlumens. So why is this so difficult?

"When are you planning on making your move, anyway?" Pansy asks, arching an eyebrow curiously.

Draco's gaze darts to his friend, and he scowls. "There's no move to make. I need him to come to me. Why trust a lowly Death Eater who comes and asks to be your new best friend?"

"Show him you're not the same as you once were."

"I'm exactly the same as I was, Pansy, there is absolutely no—"

"No," she says softly, "you're not." She smiles at him a bit. "I think you've learned something, and you've taught it to me with grace. You shouldn't be quite so hard on yourself. You aren't your father."

Draco says nothing, and turns his gaze to Potter once more.

Potter is pretty. It's not something that really is overly shocking, because Draco's known this for quite a long time. But so many people view him as scruffy, maybe a bit unkempt, and Draco isn't convinced it's entirely true. Potter's eyes dance with something that gives him such a radiant aura; he exudes charisma. People are attracted to him by the way he walks and the way he talks and the simple way he can look and smile without even lifting his lips. He's magnetic, and Draco always attributed that to being famous. But last year, when everybody was turned the other way, he still managed to draw everybody to him.

Draco thinks it might be beginning to pull him in as well.

Abruptly, he stands up. "I think it might be best if I spoke to him," he says.

Pansy beams. "Good!"

Before he can change his mind, Draco begins his walk over to Potter, who has also stood up. He's almost out the door, and Draco catches his shoulder with a slender hand.

Potter turns, mouth open to say something, then his eyes narrow. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

Draco's mouth goes dry. He didn't plan far enough ahead. This is why he's not a fan of spontaneous action.

"What did that letter say?" he blurts, and immediately wishes he hadn't.

Potter snorts. "Don't you know, Malfoy? You wrote it."

"I was, er, passing it along for . . . Pansy," he says, stumbling over the lie. It's got far too many holes, and Pansy isn't going to be overly pleased with how she was dragged into it without so much as a second thought.

"Really." Potter hums a bit, then reaches into the pocket of his robe and extracts a piece of parchment. "Well, this says, and I quote"—he folds it open slowly—"'Potter, you really do look awful. Perhaps you need to sleep more?'"

"That's all?" Draco asks in disbelief. "It's not—signed or anything?"

"No, but if you think simply leaving a letter unsigned is going to make me believe Parkinson wrote this, then I think you're about as mental as this little note implies."

"Well, it's not untrue, is it? You do look terrible.'

"Why, Malfoy," Potter says coldly, eyes narrowed, "I'm almost of the belief you care."

"At least give it back. It wasn't meant to . . ." Wasn't meant to what? Draco doesn't know, and as he trails off, he grabs for the parchment in some move of desperation. He's not only made a giant fool of himself in Potter's eyes, they're also beginning to draw a crowd.

Their skin brushes, and for a moment Draco forgets where he is. He remembers, clearly, the face of the raven-haired man in his dream, who had smiled and reached out for him. And the words had fallen between them like it might connect them somehow.

"I love you," he had said, and he had sounded so earnest, so real, that Draco had believed it. He had reached his hand out, and the crescent moon had hit sunshine before blue flames engulfed them.

Jerking his hand back, Draco stares at the birthmark on his palm.

The crescent moon had hit sunshine.

He inhales sharply, then turns back to Potter, who looks slightly stunned.

"Did you just—," Potter begins, but Draco sneers at him, suddenly beyond angry.

"What I did and did not do or none of your business, Potter," he hisses.

The note lies on the grounds between them, dropped from Potter's hand in the sudden shock of whatever had happened. Draco bends to retrieve it and glares at Potter before turning to make his way down the dungeons.

His heart is pounding, and those blue flames won't go away. His entire head is filled with dancing azure lights, flying majestically around him, not hot but oh-so beautiful.

"Malfoy!" is called after him, exasperated and confused, but Draco ignores it. He's messed it up. He thinks he messed it up a long time ago.

He wishes he could apologize, but his parents are so far gone. It seems like he'll never see them again, never get a chance to be part of something as large as a family again. Maybe he took it all for granted while he had it, but now he understands And he wants it back.

The thing, though, it that he was never meant to succeed. It was a request given to him in hopes of finding an easier way to Potter, but there is no "easier way to Potter." He's just . . . the pawn. The sacrifice. The naïve sixteen-year-old who just wanted to see his family again. It was used against him, his own father's actions held at his throat like some kind of weapon.

Taking a deep breath, he steels himself. No, he won't just give up. It's not a lost cause. Potter is still reachable. This is what he has to do, and he'll be damned if he doesn't deliver.

But somewhere, deep in his mind, he sees a raven-haired man surrounded by blue flames, smiling at him as if he is the only thing left in the world. And somewhere even deeper, he knows that he smiled back.


	2. Chapter Two

**a/n: **thank you for reading! my apologies for taking a long time to update. i've not been well lately, but i think i'm getting better. reviews are wonderful and extremely appreciated!

* * *

If there's one thing that Draco knows for certain, it's that nothing is ever "easy." If you want to get things done, you have to work to get them done. It's simple. It's how he got ten O.W.L.s. Of course, this little rule applies in areas other than studies.

So he's going to learn what, exactly, will make Potter want to trust him. Potter has little reason to ever even give Draco a second glance, but Draco's confident he can at least get Potter to look his way. After all, he's always been good with getting people on his side, hasn't he? Potter's just always been a bit difficult. But he can't have high standards, can he? He hangs around with Granger and Weasley all the time.

Potter is two things: selfless to a severe fault and awful at hiding his emotions. Oh, and he's terrible at Potions. Or, at least, that's how it _should _be. However, it can be said that he's not actually bad enough to need to take Remedial Potions. After all, you can't get into a N.E.W.T. level Potions class if you're that bad at the subject.

But Draco digresses. No, Potter is _selfless, _as in he will put his life on the line for anybody. He might even do it for Draco.

There are a number of life-threatening things at Hogwarts. A number of things Draco avoids, to be more precise. He's never been one to _try _to get killed. Not like Potter is.

It's simple, though. The hero will always save the day, because that's what heroes do. Heroes will save everyone. Even those who deserve to die.

Potter approaches him later that day, catching him right outside of the Great Hall.

It's a surprise, but then Draco remembers what happened just two days ago. It was the _note. _That stupid note. Why had he given it to Potter, anyway? He had written it half-asleep, and he has wasted more parchment to word it right—which he still hadn't wound up doing anyway, apparently—than he would like to admit.

"Can I help you, Potter?" Draco asks, slightly irritated, but holding his breath. He also remembers that Potter had laughed at the note, that he had locked eyes with Draco and his eyes had sparkled with mirth and everything else had seemed to fade away. Maybe it worked like it was supposed to.

"Yeah." Potter pauses, shifts, then frowns. "I wanted to ask you why you _did _give me that, er, note." He coughs, and he's looking more than awkward. Draco thinks maybe their last exchange would be better off forgotten by them both. "I mean, why does it matter to you?"

"It doesn't," Draco says stiffly. "I didn't know what it _said. _It was an accident that you wound up with it at all."

This a blatant lie, but Potter seems to buy it.

"I see. But that's a bit . . . contradictory, don't you think? I mean, I reckon there has to be a reason it was written at all."

Draco sighs. "Potter, sometimes you do things that even I can't quite comprehend. I wouldn't go around trying to analyze every person's motives, if I were you. It's not your style, for one, and it's also extremely hypocritical, all things considered."

"Well, Malfoy, caring about anything has never really struck me as your style, so I'm beginning to think we're both breaking our own morals or something here."

"Morals?" Draco demands. "This has nothing to do with _morals. _Merlin, Potter, you're dense. I'm thinking—" He stops himself, and almost curses. If he's going to befriend Potter, he's going about it all wrong. _Think before you speak, _he chastises himself.

"What was that, Malfoy?" Green eyes narrow, and Draco marvels at how nice Potter's eyes are. He's never really noticed before, but they're really quite gorgeous.

Draco swallows, his thoughts sinking in. Potter does _not _have nice eyes. Especially not when they're narrowed like that . . . with such a fierce anger in them. It's not attractive. It's not.

"Nothing," he says, voice not at all how it normally sounds. He clears his throat, silently cursing himself. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have better things to be doing right now."

He turns on his heel, and he feels Potter's eyes burning into his back. They're really green, Draco thinks. They spark a feeling in his chest that he can't properly describe, but it almost feels like home.

* * *

His mother tended to rose bushes on the grounds. They were _pretty, _sparkling with dew in the sunshine, red as blood. Draco remembers being ten years old and complaining about these roses, because his mother gave them more attention than she gave him.

She had simply smiled and shook her head. Grabbing his hand, she led him back to her rose bushes and let him see them, pointing out all the little things about them. They all had their faults, and some of them were wilting. Some were just beginning to bloom.

"But they're still pretty, aren't they, Dragon?" she had said quietly. "They have these little faults all over, but they're still pretty. I hope that, one day, you can see people like roses."

"Why?" Draco had said, bewildered. "People are people, not flowers!"

"People are people," Narcissa had mumbled. "They are, aren't they? It's a silly thing for me to say, to compare people to flowers."

Draco had nodded earnestly then, but now, six years later, he wonders if maybe his mother had a point. Beautiful things have imperfections.

But the way she had looked when he had told her that people are people was so different from any look Draco had ever seen on his mother's face. It was a twisted look, as if she wanted to be angry but simply was sad instead.

Draco keeps this memory hidden inside him. He saw a side of Narcissa that not a lot of people did. She has _always _been the most important thing in Draco's life. Draco thinks she might be the only person he's ever properly loved. Of course, he does love his father, but . . . it's hard to love a person when you don't love their ideals.

Lucius's ideals are something Narcissa has never agreed on. Looking back on it, Draco realizes this in a way he's never really bothered to before. It was that twisted look of sadness and anger on her face and the way she repeated her son's casual words.

Draco, throughout the summer, had forgotten of the rose bushes. He remembered them late in August, close to when he was meant to return to Hogwarts. Despite having a house else to be able to do things like tend to the rose bushes, Narcissa liked to do it herself. Why, Draco doesn't know.

What he does know, is that without someone to take care of something, it will die.

And on that late August day, when Draco went to see the roses, they all laid sun-baked and dehydrated, completely withered.

They all laid dead.

* * *

Draco is beginning to think that doing something dangerous to have Potter rescue him may not be so bad. Even if it winds up that Potter doesn't rescue him at all.

It's exhausting. All of it. Too exhausting. He's really fucking _tired _and he would be much happier if none of this were even happening at all. Of course, it's all bloody Potter's fault. All of it traces back to Potter in the end.

Potter is the kind of person who acts without thinking. He's the kind of person that expects to be worshipped for being a hero, and he lives of the publicity of it. He does rash things, he gets credited for them, and he gets to be everybody's favourite person.

It's the way things _are. _What Draco knows is this: there are heroes, and here are villains. And in the end, the heroes always manage to beat the villains, anyway.

Something else Draco knows is that everybody's hero is a different person. He knows who is father's hero is, and he knows who Potter's hero is, but he'll be damned if he knows who _his _hero is. Maybe it's just too late for him to have any kind of hero. He thought it was his father, once, but now he doesn't think that's exactly right.

"What are you doing?" comes Pansy's voice, amused.

"An essay," Draco says shortly, not bothering to look at her.

"Doesn't look like it to me." She sits down beside him and frowns. "In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you've been sitting here for fifteen minutes doing _nothing._"

"I'm not doing nothing."

"You know, Potter notices you already," she says thoughtfully. "He thinks you're an idiot—and, darling, we all do—but he's intrigued by your idiocy. He can tell you're up to something, and he's curious as to what. You just have to say something else to him."

Draco sighs, shaking his head. "I was thinking something more along the lines of accidentally throwing myself off the astronomy tower and seeing if he'll catch me at the bottom," he says bitterly.

"Doesn't seem like a good idea, dear." Pansy pats his arm. "How about you do something more . . . I don't know . . . damsel-in-distress-y?"

"I certainly hope I didn't just hear the words damsel-in-distress-y come out of your mouth."

"Sadly, I think you may have. But you're distracting yourself from my point, which is entirely wonderful and a sure-fire way to capture any man." She winks, and Draco suddenly has the feeling she's trying to say something else with this conversation.

"Drop your books or something," she says, serious. "Trip in a corridor. He's a Gryffindor. He'll either kick you while you're down or help you up. If you _really _want to make a point, 'accidentally' knock him down with you."

"Pansy, I know you may be under the belief that this is similar to getting a boyfriend, but it truly isn't."

"Does it matter?" She shrugs. "Your relationship status isn't important as long as you manage any type of relationship with him at all. I'm not telling you to fall in love with him. I'm telling you to do whatever is going to help you get your family back." She stands, and looks back at him, something sparkling in her eyes. "You don't need to suffer over Potter, Draco. He doesn't deserve it."

And she walks away without another word, Draco sitting in silence behind her. He understands, then, the light in her eyes: pity. Pity, for him, because he can't decide if he should choose Potter over his parents, when the answer should be more than obvious.

* * *

Draco's mother was a storyteller, and she told him beautiful stories of women that danced through flowers and slayed dragons, because she was powerful.

Potter reminds Draco a bit of the women in the stories his mother used to tell him. He's truly gorgeous, and he shines radiantly when people look at him. But he's also fierce, and he hardly looks afraid to kill.

It's like Potter means something to Draco. It's like Draco _cares _for Potter in a way that one shouldn't care for their school enemy. They've never been anything but vile to each other, but somewhere in his chest, Draco recognizes this feeling as the same one he feels when he remembers that his mother could die any day now.

Draco is a lot of things, and he thinks that maybe he's spent a lot of time denying the more important parts of himself. Because he wouldn't have pegged himself as a coward three years ago, but now he's not so sure he isn't. Slytherins are cunning and ambitious, and in no way can you chase your way to the top with bravery. No, cowards are what make up Slytherin House. People who can't find it in themselves to step away from their parents' shadows or away from the prejudices that have always gripped the wizarding world. These are the people that work the curtains because they prefer to have control over the entire production rather than sit in the spotlight and bask in glory. Because it's always easiest to win if you have the upper hand.

But Draco's not so sure who has the upper hand.

He thought it was the Dark Lord. He's powerful and his ideals were the ones that other powerful people fell behind. Now, though, it seems that maybe his ideal aren't the kind the world needs.

But it's not the way the world will wind up being that Draco's worried over. No, he's more concerned about Potter, and the power _he _possesses. Though sixteen years old he may be, Potter has never struggled at magic. _Especially _not defensive magic. One could say he had a strong affinity for it, as if he was born to fight.

Maybe he was.

Potter is a fighter, jumping into the frontlines because it's in his nature to sacrifice himself. Potter has never felt the power in running the things behind the stage, because he's always been glowing in the sunlight like some kind of hero.

But Potter's always _been _the hero. He doesn't think twice about it. He would save a person, and he would leave them to hear about how wonderful he is for saving them. Draco couldn't be more different than Potter in this sense. They're far too opposite. Draco would rather save himself any day.

From across the lake, Draco sees Potter with Weasley. Many students are outside on the Saturday afternoon, which is warm and fairly quiet. It's one of the last nice days they'll have before winter, surely, and they're all here to enjoy it while it lasts.

Weasley speaks to Potter in what is clearly a hushed conversation, and Draco can't help but wonder if it has to do with Potter's awful appearance.

He stands up, narrowing his eyes in their direction. If he could just get within hearing range. . . .

He's nearly there, close enough to hear their whispers but not so close that he can make them out. They haven't seen him, and he thinks if he could just make it a few more steps to the left—

Someone yelps, and Draco starts, not having been paying attention much to his destination as much as he was Potter and Weasley. Looking down, he notices that Granger has fallen in a heap of robes on the ground, her token books creating a small circle around her.

He straightens, snarls down at her. "Watch where you're going—"

But the word catches in his throat, and Granger raises an eyebrow at him while she brings herself to her feet again.

"What's wrong, Malfoy?" she says suspiciously. "Don't tell me you've _forgotten _what I am, have you?"

"Of course not." He scoffs, but it's weak. He wonders why, suddenly, the word is so difficult to say. It's like everything his father has taught him has gone away with his father to prison.

"Hermione?" Potter says, coming behind her, Weasley following and glaring at Draco. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she says dismissively. She stares up curiously at Draco for a moment before she asks, "Why won't you say it?"

"I don't know what you mean," Draco responds, tone partly stiff and growing slightly angry.

Granger rolls her eyes. "Yes you do. You were going to call me _Mudblood, _but you didn't. Why not?"

"Hermione, it's not worth—," Weasley starts, but Granger shakes her head and he grows silent again.

"Perhaps you should listen to Weasley," Draco growls, and turns to walk away, but somebody grabs his wrist.

It's a warm touch, spreading through his body like some kind of heavenly fire. Draco can't help but recall the blue flames from his dream, licking at his skin like the feathery wings of angels. Somewhere deep inside of him, Draco doesn't need to turn around to know it's Potter.

"What?" he snaps, turning to face the three Gryffindors.

The area of his wrist that Potter holds shines with a dull blue, and he's not certain if it's real or not until he looks to see the surprise etched onto Potter's face and the inquiring look on Granger's face. One look at Weasley says he might have an idea of what it means.

Draco thinks he might, too.

He yanks his arm away, feeling more than harassed.

They all stare at him, open-mouthed and extremely awkward-looking.

"What are you staring at?" he says angrily, holding his arm close to him and rubbing it slowly.

"It happened before," Potter says suddenly. "In front of the Great Hall." He raises an eyebrow at Draco. "You ran away after that."

"What?" Weasley says, blinking. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because he didn't think it mattered," Granger says matter-of-factly.

"Maybe it's because it doesn't," Draco snarls. "Now, if you're all finished gawking at me, I would prefer if I could go."

He tries, once more, to escape, but a whisper from Potter stops him in his tracks. "Let me see your hand."

"Why does it matter?"

Granger and Weasley look between them, strangely quiet. Never has Draco pictured a day in which he and Potter aren't screaming at each other through hallways and throwing hexes at each other, or putting down their family and friends. Now, it feels so charged, and Draco thinks he wouldn't mind running away here. But something in Potter's tone stops him, something about the gentle demand, more of a question than anything else.

"Does it need to matter?" Potter sighs. "Honestly, Malfoy, what's it going to change? You've already started being weird about everything from the moment you told me I looked awful."

Draco reaches out his arm, hesitant. He's intrigued, yes, but if it winds up being true . . . he's not sure what he would do. But . . . maybe it would help him.

After all, it's not like he loves Potter.

Potter puts his palm beside Draco's, and there in the same spot as the crescent moon on Draco's right hand, Potter has a matching sun on his palm.

Draco swallows, and shakes his head. "Potter, it doesn't mean—"

Potter traces a light finger over the crescent moon, and Draco remembers his mother's gentle hands moving to the same pattern. He grows silent, watching Potter's fingers. With a slow, shaky hand, Potter aligns their palms, and bright blue light flashes around them. It's awe-inspiring, and Draco wants to close his eyes, but he _can't. _It's the same view as in his dream, but this is so real, so there, and Draco could just reach out and touch it.

It's warm, and he isn't certain if it's Potter's hand in his or the flames drawing closer to them with every breath he takes. But the fire falls away with the next inhale, and Potter stares at him, wild-eyed. Granger and Weasley look at them in a mix of fear, awe, and anger.

Around them, students have gathered around to see what's happened. They can't see properly, and Draco quickly slips his hand out of Potter's before they _can _see.

"Malfoy—"

"It doesn't mean anything," Draco says as curtly as he can.

"Bloody hell, Malfoy," Weasley says, "of course it means something."

"Only if you plan to make it that way, Weasley. As far as I'm concerned, it means nothing at all." His tone is cool, collected. His mind is in complete shambles.

Weasley snorts. "Didn't your parents teach you anything about it?"

The crowd of people around them has dispersed, all of them shrugging their shoulders. Just another Malfoy-Potter fight. They're common, expected, and nobody thinks twice about them when they happen.

"Of course, Weasley, we happen to be extremely civilized and educated. I don't see why you might think you know more on the topic than I do?" It's a challenge. Draco tends to prefer to fight when he grows nervous, and he knows he _should _just be letting it all go swimmingly if he wants his mother back, but it's all just coming out and he can't stop it.

"I don't know what you think is civilized, Malfoy, but your family is not it," Weasley growls, and Granger puts a calming hand on his arm. He takes a breath in and says, "But it doesn't matter. Part of the Bonding is an emotional link. It's why soulmates are soulmates, isn't it? They always have to come back to each other in the end."

"But I don't _love _Potter," Draco spits. "If there's no emotion that will make me come back, then what is it?"

"Hey, _I _don't know how it works. All I know is that soulmates always wind up back together in the end. Part of the magic, I guess."

Potter splutters, and Draco turns to glare at him. Potter was the one that _caused _this!

"That's not what Hermione said!" he exclaims.

"Well, the research isn't always reliable with things like this." Granger shrugs. "It's an old magic, Harry. Nobody really knows how it works. Some of the older wizarding families, but . . . it's mostly lost knowledge."

"So there's no proof in Weasley's theory," Draco says.

"Well, no, but . . . it's not to say it _won't _happen."

"But there's no proof it will." Draco glares at the three Gryffindors in turn, and turns around. This time, no words or fingers stop him from leaving. But behind him he can still see the blue flames reaching around him, warm and welcoming. And in the back of his mind, he can't help but wonder if Potter remembers it quite as vividly as he does.


	3. Chapter Three

**a/n: **all right, first of all, huge thanks for the reviews on the last two chapters. you're a wonderful person, and, yes, i've been feeling a lot better lately! thank you for the concern. secondly, apologies that it's rather short. i'm hoping to delve more into the finer details of their relationship soon, but for now it's all about building up the plot. thank you, and i hope you enjoy! (reviews/favourites/follows are greatly appreciated!)

* * *

The next time Draco sees Potter, he can't help but notice how alive his eyes look, burning with a kind of fire that hasn't been there for . . . years, Draco thinks. Of course, Draco wouldn't really know; watch Potter sometimes he may, but it's not as if he cares about Potter.

So far, Weasley's theory hasn't proven itself to be correct. Not that Draco expected it to. Or hoped it would.

He shakes his head slightly, and takes a deep breath. It's only been a day, hasn't it? If Weasley is right, Draco doubts it would take such a small amount of time for the magic—or whatever it is—to work.

"Are you going to tell me what has you so tightly wound today?" Pansy asks casually, and Draco shoots her a glare.

"Hey, it was just a question." She pauses, and puts a hesitant hand on Draco's. "But you don't have to keep everything bottled up, you know. I know you know I'm trustworthy. I wouldn't just leave you."

Silence wraps around them for a count of three before Draco exhales slowly. "I know," he says. "I do trust you, it's just . . . not easy to say." His mouth twitches, and he wants to frown at the words he has just spoken. It's not like him to talk about anything he's feeling.

"Is this about your mother?" Her tone is cautious, as if she expects him to yell. He wouldn't yell in the middle of the breakfast, of course, but . . . okay, maybe he would. But not about this.

"No," he says, biting his cheek. Thinking about it for a second, he amends, "A bit."

"Potter?" Pansy guesses.

"Do you remember when I told you about the birthmark on my hand?" Draco says abruptly. "My mother told me not to tell anybody, but I told you. And you have to keep it a secret, Pans. Do you understand?"

She blinks, alarmed. "Yes, I understand. Why are you so worried? I thought we'd figured it was a coincidence, anyway."

Draco puts his hand on the table, flat in front of her. The crescent moon glows with a dull blue. It hasn't stopped pulsing like this since everything that happened the day before, and Draco wishes he could just smother it.

Pansy's eyebrows knit themselves together, and she glances up at Draco again. "What does it mean?"

Draco stares at the tiny blue light flickering on his skin. "It means," he says bitterly, "that it's not just a coincidence."

"Who is it?" Pansy asks, hushed, excited. Draco almost wishes he could share her excitement.

Draco drums his fingers against the table, not meeting her eyes. "Fucking guess," he says, and maybe he sounds angry, because Pansy coils back a bit, but he doesn't care. If she can help him sort out this issue, he'll be more than thankful.

"Well, I don't know who it could be!" she snaps. "Just tell me. Merlin, you're terribly moody, aren't you?"

Sighing, Draco grabs her hand gently. "Sorry," he says, and he means it. "It's just . . . not who I would have chosen."

Pansy raises an eyebrow. "It's not Granger, is it?"

"Think a bit bigger, Pans," Draco suggests.

"Weasley?"

Draco winces. "No, definitely not Weasley. Look—"

"I don't want to guess anymore," Pansy says, huffing loudly. "You're terrible at this."

"It's Potter," Draco hisses, and Pansy drops the glass she had just picked up.

"What?"

Draco looks down at the broken glass sourly. "I'm fairly certain you heard me. It happened yesterday, by the lake."

"Who saw it?" Pansy's eyes are still as wide as the plates on the table in front of them, and Draco wants to scoff, but he can't seem to force the expression onto his face.

"Everyone there?" He laughs, and it hurts his chest a bit. It's not a human laugh. This laugh sounds like desperation, tears that won't be released. It's angry and perhaps it's a touch sad, but either way, Draco hates it, hates the weakness in it, the way it feels in his throat.

Pansy swallows and places a soothing hand on Draco's arm. "But it was you and Potter. Surely nobody would . . ."

"Well, I'm certain most simply left it alone and decided it was just a fight. But, Pans, there's no spell that. Somebody would have realized that."

Pansy starts at the use of the comfortable nickname, and Draco realizes suddenly that he hasn't called her that in year. She smiles gently. "You can't exactly make it a secret, Draco. But . . . what, exactly, did happen? What kind of magic was it?"

"Flames," Draco says, voice soft. "Blue ones. Everywhere. They were beautiful."

She inhales slightly and stands up, Draco hurrying to join her. "Wow. It really is a different kind of magic, isn't it?"

The words or quiet, and Draco doesn't know whether they're meant for him or not. But he answers anyway, his eyes seeking out Potter, rather against his will. "Yeah," he says, and he can't help the way his voice grows softer when Potter's gaze meets his. "I suppose it is.

* * *

By the time classes are over on Monday afternoon, Draco is feeling more than a little anxious. It's his stomach twisting and his eyes watering and he can't explain the why, exactly, but he thinks that he might have a small idea. But if he's right—and Merlin help him if he is—he doesn't even want to think about what will happen after.

And his hand aches to a point that he can hardly move it at all. Never in all his life has he hated Potter more than he does right now. So why should he be feeling this awful pull in his gut?

"You look like you're going to throw up," says Pansy, amused.

He turns and glares at her, but falters when he sees that she's not alone. Blaise stands beside her, and Draco is suddenly struck with the realization that he's hardly seen anybody except Pansy since the beginning of the year. Well, there's Potter, too, but Potter isn't someone he would call a "friend."

"What's the date?" Draco asks, and Pansy blinks in confusion.

"The . . . seventh?" She frowns. "Why do you ask?"

"Of October?" Draco says, startled.

"Well, yeah," Pansy says, sharing a look Draco can't see with Blaise. "What's up with you?"

"As if you have to ask." Draco scoffs.

"You know," Blaise says slowly, "your mother's probably fine. They can't really do anything to her." The yet hangs in the air, coiling around the three of them tensely.

"Potter's pretty gullible, isn't he? I'm sure you'll manage to sway him," Pansy says, but her voice is too tight.

"I'm not worried about that," Draco says, waving his hand dismissively.

"Oh," says Pansy, and Blaise opens his mouth to say something, but Pansy beats him to it: "Are you coming to dinner with us?"

Draco stands up, and he thinks that Potter will most likely be in the Great Hall, too. But he can't exactly stay in the Slytherin common room forever. The feeling will pass, he tells himself. It's entirely temporary. If it's not love, then it can't be that difficult to endure. Give it time. It's all he can do.

Pansy grabs his arm and pulls him close enough to hear her whisper, "Are you going to tell me what's actually wrong?"

Blaise turns back to them when he realizes they've trailed behind. "Pansy, if you would stop doing . . . that, it would be much appreciated. I'm rather hungry, you know."

Pansy looks from Blaise to Draco, and Draco gives her a small nod before she releases herself from his arm and catches up to Blaise, flinging an arm upwards to wrap around his shoulders. She has to stand on her toes to keep her arm there, and Draco thinks it looks ridiculous, but neither of them make an attempt to remove her arm from where it sits.

Draco's missed this kind of exchange. He's been so wrapped up in getting Potter to the Dark Lord that he hasn't given himself time to remember that there are other things he cares about.

Upon entering the Great Hall, Draco is hit with the sudden feeling that he might actually throw up. He grabs the wall for support, and grabs Pansy's shoulder with the other hand.

She whirls around, and her face instantly turns to a look of concern. "What's wrong? You look terrible."

"It's Potter," Draco hisses, his head beginning to pound. "He's in here."

"The magic is trying to bring you together," she whispers, eyes widening. "It won't go away until you're close enough to him, will it?"

"Then shouldn't it lessen the closer I get?" Draco grumbles, but he feels faint.

"Where is he?" Pansy asks, glancing around at the students in the hall. "He must be having a similar reaction, right?"

"Whoa," Blaise says, approaching them again. "What did you do?"

"Find Potter," Pansy demands, and Blaise frowns.

"What?"

"Find Potter," she repeats. "Just do it. Ask your questions later."

Draco takes a deep breath and slowly turns back around to go out the door of the hall. He aches in such a way he can't explain, in such a way he's never felt. It's awful. His hand is searing. If this is what Weasley meant would draw them back together, then Draco very much regrets not having listened to his warning. Had he anticipated something like this happening, he never would have taken Potter's hand in the first place.

He takes a deep breath and slides down the wall, so he's sitting as comfortably as he possibly can. Being angry about it won't help anything, he reminds himself. He wishes he could tell himself something better, something his mother might say in this situation. She's always been good with words, always known what to say to calm a person down.

"Hey!" Pansy's voice snarls from nearby. "I didn't say you could—"

"Maybe if he had listened to me this wouldn't be happening." Is that . . . Weasley? What in the world is he yelling at Pansy for?

"Well, I wouldn't say you're the most reliable source for information!"

"At least—"

"Would you at least be civil for a moment?" This one is Granger, and she sounds angry. She pauses for a second, then asks, "Where is he?"

"I would assume outside the door. But it's not your business, Granger. I asked for Potter, not his annoying tag-alongs."

"It might come as a shock to you, Parkinson, but a tag-along tends to go wherever the person they're following goes," Granger says coldly. "It's not like you could stop us, anyway."

Pansy says something else, but Draco doesn't hear it, as his ears have focused, instead, on the footsteps coming towards him. Two sets of feet, he thinks. He hopes one of them is Potter, but immediately shuts that thought down. He won't rely on Potter. He can't.

"You look awful," says Potter, smirking, and there he stands above Draco, perfectly fine, not in any visible pain.

"You don't," Draco remarks shakily.

Potter eyes him curiously, and Draco wants to snap at him to do something, anything, to ease this awful pain, but he won't let himself say those words, won't let himself seem so desperate.

Noticing Weasley beside Potter, Draco asks, "Did you know it would be like this?"

Weasley raises an eyebrow. "Does that really matter? I didn't, but it's not like you would have done anything differently."

"Well, do you know how to stop it?"

"I'm guessing it's linked to the birthmarks," Granger says, coming up behind Weasley and Potter, a confused Blaise and a fuming Pansy trailing behind her.

"So, were we to touch hands again . . ." Potter trails off, looking to Granger.

She nods. "That's what I would say. You're standing pretty close, so I imagine it would have stopped by now had it been sensitive to where you were."

Potter squats down in front of Draco and gently grabs Draco's left hand, flipping it over to find his birthmark. He presses his palm against Draco's, and the relief is instant. Draco gasps and blinks, and he stares at Potter, who is glowing slightly blue.

Potter exhales, and his hand falls out of Draco's. He stands up, slowly, and Draco can't help but notice how drained he looks.

"I've never seen magic like this before," Granger mumbles as Draco stands.

"Of course you haven't." Pansy scoffs. "None of us have."

"Is that better?" Potter asks Draco, and he sounds genuinely concerned.

"Yes," Draco says, "but I don't understand why I . . ."

"I've felt off all day," Potter offers. "Not like that . . . maybe a fifth of what you were feeling, but definitely . . . off."

"What's going on?" Blaise interupts, voice surprisingly calm.

Pansy cuts herself from whatever she was about to say to Granger, turning to face Blaise. "Right," she says, glancing back at Draco. He gives her a small nod, and she continues: "Soulmates."

"Soulmates? I thought that that wasn't a real magic, Pans." Blaise frowns.

"Well, it is," Pansy says. "We just don't know the . . . details."

Blaise shakes his head. "I don't get it. How can they be soulmates? They hate each other. They always have."

"It's not like we chose," Draco says shortly. He faces Potter again, eyebrows furrowed together. "What do you mean, you've felt off all day?"

Potter shrugs. "Just, not the same. Achy, my hand's been hurting. I've felt a bit like something was missing." He pauses, then flushes, his words sinking in. "Not you, but something I've had all my life."

"Something you've— Potter, what do you mean?"

Granger and Pansy exchange a grim look, but Draco pays it no heed. He's focused on Potter, on Potter's words.

"Something important to me. I feel like I really miss whatever it is, but I can't place what it might be. But it's only a small thing, just kind of . . . in the back of my head, I guess."

"Draco," Pansy says, "you don't think—"

"And the . . . achy feeling?" Draco demands.

"It's gone, now, but it was a . . . discomfort, pain. Like I was nervous almost."

"That's the same," Draco mutters. "But not as painful? And it's gone now?"

"Yeah. But, er, why does it matter?"

Pansy shifts on her feet. "Draco, I think it's probably just a part of the magic. I doubt it's what you're thinking."

Draco sighs. "You're right," he says, but he's not convinced that she is.

Granger crosses her arms. "What, pray tell, were you thinking, Malfoy? Because, if I didn't know any better, I would say you don't seem to believe Parkinson."

Narrowing his eyes, Draco says, "And what makes you think that, Granger? You don't know me better than my own friends do, even if you think you know everything."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm fairly certain everybody could tell you're lying. So, explain."

He raises an eyebrow at her, but doesn't press her the same way she's pressing him. "Fine," he says. "I thought that maybe it might be some kind of Bond. My mother"—he coughs, feeling ridiculous for the way his throat wants to close up at the word—"told me about a Bonding process with it, but she didn't know what it was. I wondered if maybe . . ."

"Your mother," Pansy whispers, "of course. He felt like he missed someone."

"Yes, well, I would appreciate if you wouldn't say it exactly like that, but that's what I thought." Draco scowls, his cheeks flaming. "Anyway, Blaise said himself that she's probably fine, so that's not what really matters, is it?"

"Well, if it is a Bond, I suppose there isn't anything we can do about it, is there?" Granger says. "But what if it were to happen again?"

"Then we do the same thing," Draco says. "It's not like it was overly difficult." He pauses. "Well, maybe for Potter."

"I wouldn't want to do that every day," Potter agrees.

"It might not happen again," Blaise points out.

"It's been three days since the Bond would have started," Weasley reminds them. "So . . ."

"So if it happens regularly, it's going to be every third day," Pansy says venomously. "As if that's any better than every day!"

Granger scoffs. "What do you want to do, then, Parkinson?"

"Take it to Dumbledore," says Potter calmly, and everyone turns in surprise.

"Are you—," Granger starts, but Draco cuts her off.

"No way, Potter. I'm not going to fucking Dumbledore to sort this out. This is my issue just as much as it is yours, and I can deal with my issues on my own. You don't get to decide."

"It was just a suggestion, Malfoy. Merlin forbid I might actually not want you to feel pain because of something I did."

"Or maybe it's because you have to feel my pain?"

"I'm not a foul, lying Slytherin like you, Malfoy," Potter hisses. "I wouldn't think something so selfish."

"Oh, yes, you're so fucking noble, aren't you, Potter? The Chosen Gryffindor hero! At least I—"

"What is going on here?" says a voice behind them, and Draco whirls around to see McGonagall. He curses his luck. Of all the potential staff members to call them out for fighting, it had to be the head of Potter's house.

"Sorry, Professor—"

"Miss Granger, I've come to expect a lot from you three over the years, but I see no reason behind needing to make a scene in front of the Great Hall."

"It was my fault, Professor," Draco says before he can stop himself, and then he wishes he could take it back. But the words continue to slip out, slippery like water on river rocks, "I needed Potter's assistance with something and I rather allowed myself to grow frustrated when it didn't seem right."

McGonagall purses her lips, and Draco holds his breath. She nods, small and curt. "Very well," she says. "Just see that it never happens again."

"Why did you—?" Potter tries, but Draco pushes past him.

"Maybe next time you'll think twice before telling me I'm foul and a liar," Draco spits, eyes narrowed. "And I hope that you don't mind partial truths too much."

He whirls around and walks away, and he knows that Pansy and Blaise follow behind him. But so do Potter's eyes, confused and calculating. And Draco thinks that maybe he doesn't mind the way it feels at all, to know that Potter's watching him so closely.

* * *

Narcissa taught Draco to draw when he was young. It was a spectacular thing, the way she could make something seem so real when it wasn't. Maybe he was most impressed because it was an entirely Muggle technique that she used.

Draco could never dream of being as talented as his mother, but he knows the basics behind the art. It's just . . . he doesn't enjoy it. Art is beautiful, he thinks, but he's always preferred to watch his mother make something beautiful than to create it himself. Maybe he's always preferred to watch beautiful things than to be beautiful himself.

However, there is some kind of power in being beautiful, in creating beauty from your hands, in seeing beauty seep from your fingertips. It's the type of power that people don't realize they have until it's pointed out to them, but once that happens, it's entirely too easy to become drunk on.

Draco doesn't want power. He wants something easy, something that won't let him become like his father. His father is not him, but how many times has he heard it? "You're just like you father." Small, simple words, and yet, somehow, someway, they're devastating.

So Draco strived to be more like Narcissa, who held the world at her fingertips in a much, much different way than her husband did. It was in the way she stood, the way she poured ink onto a page and made something straight out of the most amazing dream you've ever had, the way she smiled when she knew she had won.

Never has he felt more like his mother than in this moment, because from the simple brushes of ink on parchment is her, surrounded by the rose bushes she so loved, the drawing illuminated by only the tip of Draco's wand.

His chest aches, like there's something so important missing. And there is, he thinks. His mother is the most important thing to him, and all he wants is to get her back. Even if it means sacrificing Potter.

As long as they get Potter, they won't hurt her. As long as they get Potter, she'll be safe.

And that's all that matters.


	4. Chapter Four

**a/n: **wow, i'm just flabbergasted by the reviews here! i can't believe that you guys are enjoying this! i'm just so-wow! thank you so much! you're absolutely wonderful! :D

* * *

This time it takes two days, but Draco recognizes it instantly.

Pansy does, too, he thinks, from the sideways glance she gives him in Transfiguration. And when she nudges Blaise and whispers to him, Draco thinks he knows, too.

By the time McGonagall dismisses them, Draco's decided that maybe he should let Potter talk this time. Clearly, it won't be going away anytime soon, and Draco doesn't exactly fancy having to live with this kind of pain for the rest of his life.

"Think of it as an advantage," Pansy whispers as they make their way to the Great Hall. "It gives you a chance to get closer to Potter, doesn't it?"

She's right, of course she is, but Draco doesn't want to think about what might happen if he got too close to Potter. That's the point of the magic, isn't it? To push them together, to make them close. Soulmates are meant to be in love forever. That's how the story goes; how the story has always gone.

He's easy enough to spot at the Gryffindor table, with his ridiculous black hair, seated between two gingers and across from a frowning Granger.

"Good luck," Pansy says from behind him as they enter.

Draco blinks. "Wait, Pansy—"

But she simply winks at him and walks away to the Slytherin table with Blaise, who turns and gives Draco an apologetic look.

Some friends they are, Draco thinks, scowling, but he doesn't follow them like some part of him wants to. Instead, he takes a deep breath and approaches the Gryffindor table, wincing from the pain each step towards Potter causes.

It's Granger that spots him first, pointing and saying something in a hushed voice, and the two Weasleys and Potter turn around to face him. Other Gryffindors are staring, dumbstruck, and Draco scoffs. They really aren't subtle, are they?

"What do you want, Malfoy?" spits the Weasley on the left, and Draco glares at her.

"Nothing to do with you, Weaslette."

"I thought you'd be coming along soon," Potter says thoughtfully.

"You could have found me," Draco tells him, and his voice is bitter. "It would have saved me having to be scrutinized by your housemates."

Potter raises an eyebrow. "If I didn't know better, Malfoy, I would almost think you cared."

"Of course I care," Draco spits. "If someone were to—" He stops himself and flushes at the thought. What a ridiculous thing to think. His father is in Azkaban, Death Eaters have his mother, and his aunt probably wouldn't care at all. And how would it gets back, anyway, that he were "fraternizing with the enemy," so to speak?

What had happened to the overconfident eleven-year-old, the one who knew who was supposed to be and was already halfway there?

Potter eyes him curiously. "Were to what, Malfoy?"

"It doesn't matter," he says dismissively and he tries to sound cool and collected, but his voice trembles with a mix of anxiety and pain that he can't seem to shake. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"People are going to start to think I like you," Potter grumbles, standing up.

The Weaslette blinks. "What's—"

"Ginny, drop it," Weasley says tiredly.

Potter turns to make his way out of the Great Hall, and Draco, irritable that he refuses to do anything where everyone can see them, follows.

A few students are trickling out of the hall, and other are finally making their way in, but Potter pays them no mind as he reaches for Draco's hand. When they touch, bright blue flashes behind Draco's eyelids, but it's gone as soon as it's there.

"Better?" Potter asks softly, and Draco notices that his eyes look exhausted, as if this one bit of magic has drained everything from it. And maybe it has, Draco thinks.

"Yeah." He pauses. "Are you okay? You look like you're going to be sick."

Potter looks up at him, surprise etched on his face, and Draco, too, is surprised by the gentle tone of voice, the genuine concern. He's never spoken like that to anybody. What might force him to talk to Potter, of all people, in such a way?

"I'm fine," Potter says, but he coughs and it sounds too weak. "I think I might need to sit down, actually."

"I think you need to go to the hospital wing," Draco corrects him. "And I'm going to take you there. Because I'm not about to let the Chosen One or whatever it is you are die on my watch."

"Bad for the Malfoy name?" Potter guesses.

Draco scoffs. "As if I could dirty it more than it already is."

Potter doesn't say anything else as they make their way up the stairs, and at the top he stops and takes a couple deep breaths. "Why d'you suppose it works like this?"

Draco ponders it while Potter catches his breath, and they're off again towards the hospital wing. "Maybe it's as if we're . . . one? Our magical cores are a part of us, and when we Bonded, they connected? So being far away for prolonged amounts of times . . ."

"Would cause physical pain and exhaustion." Potter coughs again. "Sometimes you do say things that make sense, Malfoy."

A sharp comeback lies on Draco's tongue, but he swallows it when he recognizes that Potter sounds playful. Not as if he's trying to insult Draco, but as if he's trying to get along. Draco and Potter have never "gotten along," but . . . Potter seems to be trying. Trying to make the most of the situation, to make it seem a lot brighter than it is.

Fucking Gryffindor.

Entering the hospital wing, they see Madam Pomfrey. She turns to face them, and she blinks.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy," she says, composing herself quickly. "What can I do for you?"

"It's Potter," Draco tells her, pushing the other boy towards the patron. He turns and glares when he stumbles, but Draco's not entirely focused on him. "He's, ah . . ."

"Exhausted?" Potter supplies, but he doesn't sound entirely sure.

Madam Pomfrey frowns. "I'm not certain I'm seeing the problem here, boys."

"Well, it's . . . magical exhaustion, I suppose." Draco sighs. "I'm not entirely certain how to explain."

"And the cause?"

"Er, well . . ." Potter glances at Draco, and Draco looks down. They'll have to do something about it, anyway, won't they? Talk to Dumbledore . . . Potter was right about that, but it doesn't mean that Draco has to like the idea.

"Soulmate magic," Draco says, turning his eyes to Madam Pomfrey's.

"Soulmate magic? Mr. Malfoy, that's absurd. That kind of magic is a myth."

"I wish it were," Potter mutters, stifling a yawn, and Draco hides a small smile.

"It's not like I asked for you, either," Draco says, rolling his eyes. "My mother told me that whomever it was would be wonderful, and look who I got stuck with."

"I don't care that it's you, but I'm a bit sick of the magic itself." Potter shrugs, sitting down on one of the beds. He turns to look up at Madam Pomfrey, smiling apologetically. "We think we were Bonded by it," he explains. "When our hands touched last week."

Madam Pomfrey seems to be at a loss for words, and Draco thinks he understands at least a little bit her confusion over it, so he says, "We have matching birthmarks on our hands, and when they touched, the magic, which I assume previously lay dormant, sprung to life. In blue flames. Since then, it seems like we've been Bonded. While away from Potter for too long, I feel physical pain, which only stops when our birthmarks touch again, but it exhausts Potter to do."

"I'm afraid this may be a bit beyond my treatment, but I may have a potion that will help. But, boys, I would suggest taking this to the Headmaster. It's not particularly healthy for you to continue on in such a manner."

She turns around to find the potion she spoke of, and Potter and Draco exchange a glance. Potter looks for too triumphant for Draco's liking, and he scowls.

"Well, there's a chance it won't work, but it's always best to try these things, wouldn't you say?" Madam Pomfrey says, coming back with a vial of potion that Draco can't see. She hands it to Potter, and he looks at it for a moment before quickly swallowing it.

Draco watches Potter curiously, but nothing seems to change.

Madam Pomfrey frowns. "Give it time," she advises. "For now, I would suggest speaking with Professor Dumbledore on what you should do."

Draco bites his tongue. So far, this entire thing has been a disaster. Bringing him closer to Potter though it may be, but how long will it take before someone figures out why he's even bothering?

"Right," Potter says and he turns to face Draco. "Er, are you—?"

"I believe you know your way best," Draco says stiffly, trying his hardest not to sound too bitter, but he imagines he's not succeeded. At all.

"Right," Potter repeats, softer this time. He stands, smiles at Madam Pomfrey. "Thank you," he says.

"Of course," she replies. "Good luck, boys."

Draco nods to her as he steps out of the room, Potter following behind him.

"Are you feeling better?" Draco queries, but it's not as if he particularly cares.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Potter assures, but his gaze is focused elsewhere, his voice distracted.

"Potter, what—"

"I'm fine," he says quickly, look to Draco with earnest eyes. "Honestly. Let's go." Then, under his breath, "Get it over with."

Draco frowns, then Potter's words hit him like a slap in the face. He can't help but laugh, the feeling boiling in the pit of his stomach and bursting upwards from his chest. And maybe he shouldn't have, but he's not sure he would have been able to stifle it. He doesn't think he's been able to stifle anything with Potter, ever.

Potter turns, alarmed. "Malfoy, what are you laughing at?"

"Merlin, Potter, don't tell me you're afraid. Afraid for people to know that your soulmate is me?" He shakes his head. "What a dent that must be on your public profile as the Boy Who Fucking Lived. Destined to kill the Dark Lord and yet, here you are, tangled up in this mess with a convicted Death Eater's son. It's going to be awful for you, won't it?"

"Malfoy, that's— How are doing that?"

"Doing what?" Draco scoffs. "Reading your tone of voice? You aren't exactly the type to keep your emotions locked up tight, Potter."

"No, it's just . . . of course, the thought crossed my mind, but it was brief . . . How can you say it like that? You've never exactly been—"

"It's what anybody would think," Draco says, glowering at his feet. "You're supposed to save the world, aren't you? How, pray tell, are you expected to do that with a Malfoy trailing after you?"

"I—"

"It doesn't matter at this point, though, does it?" Draco raises an eyebrow. "We're going to talk to Dumbledore."

"Yeah, okay," Potter says, and his voice is doubtful but he lead Draco throughout the corridors anyway.

Draco wishes he could rewind to three months ago. Go back to the rose bush and the simple sadness and the aching hole in his heart that his mother normally filled. But instead he's here, losing all of his careful filters and being too easily unravelled by Harry Potter.

It was easy when he was eleven and the word Mudblood slipped off his tongue as if it were ice and he could stick his nose in the air at anything or anyone and never have to feel the consequence of it. When he could flaunt his name and his money to get whatever he wanted and he had someone to aspire to be.

They stop before a gargoyle statue and, hesitantly, Potter says, "Acid Pops."

The gargoyle leaps to the side, opening up the passage to stairway. Draco blinks, surprised. "Why do you know the password to Dumbledore's office?"

"He, uh, told me?" Potter says feebly and Draco furrows his eyebrows but figures he'd best not push it.

Ascending the stairs, they reach a door. Potter turns to face Draco, amused. "You need to calm down, Malfoy," he whispers.

"What are you—?"

Potter points to his hands, where fingers are tapping rapidly against his thigh, and he flushes.

"Right," he mumbles. "Sorry."

Potter rolls his eyes and turns to rap on the door, which opens as his hand returns to his side.

Dumbledore stands inside the room, and he smiles as they enter. "Madam Pomfrey told me she had sent you, although she was very adamant you two explain the situation." He looks at them over his glasses, and Draco glances away. Dumbledore is a Legilimens, he thinks. A powerful one.

It takes two deep breaths before Draco feels confident enough to look up again and meet the Headmaster's gaze. Dumbledore considers him carefully, and then the eye contact is lost.

"So," Dumbledore says, "I invite you to share your thoughts."

"We think we've been Bonded," Draco says simply, arching an eyebrow. "By soulmate magic."

Dumbledore looks to Potter, who coughs awkwardly and rubs at his hand. Then his gaze returns to Draco, intrigued. "Soulmate magic?"

"Yes, sir," Potter speaks up, looking sideways at Draco almost helplessly. "Madam Pomfrey suggested we come to you because . . ."

"Being apart from Potter," Draco fills in bitterly, "causes me physical anguish. And only he can take that pain away."

"And when I do it exhausts me."

"We assumed it used up too much of his magic," Draco says. "That it was most likely a system in which we were forced to vie for one another's magic."

"And I can feel vaguely what Malfoy's feeling," Potter adds. "Physically and emotionally."

Dumbledore ponders this for a moment, then turns to sit down, gesturing for the two of them to sit across from him. They quickly follow the hand movement and watch the Headmaster carefully, and Draco can't help but think that he's not going to like whatever comes next.

"I suspect the best thing to do would be to keep the two of you together," Dumbledore finally says. He pauses, then asks, "How long does it take before coming into effect?"

Draco frowns, exchanged a look with Potter. "Two days, give or take?"

"Perhaps," Dumbledore muses, "if you were to spend your days together, the magic would be satisfied? I must confess, I know very little of this particular branch of magic. It's highly uncommon. However, that is not to say I'm not willing to adjust the current situation to assist you in any way possible."

"Sir, we don't share the same classes," Draco says, throat slightly dry.

"I'm certain, should we explain the situation, your professors will be understanding and allow it. As for your classmates, I suppose that's your story to tell."

"And during meals and breaks?" Potter queries.

"Of course, it will take some getting used to, but I believe you can both grow accustomed to it in time."

"So that's it?" Draco says, a mix of anger and bafflement boiling in his stomach. "You expect us to just drop everything and get along? To change up our lives as they currently are, just like that?"

"What did you expect, Malfoy?" Potter scoffs. "I know you're used to things going your way, but—"

Draco laughs harshly. "I don't know what you think, Potter, but it's never been about me. You don't get to tell me how my life has gone. At least you get the comfort of knowing your parents died heroes! My father's in prison, and my mother . . . Don't pretend like you're the only one who's had a difficult life, because you most certainly aren't."

Potter winces visibly, and something cold flows down Draco's spine at the sight.

"Sorry," he says quickly, and immediately wonders why.

Dumbledore looks between them curiously, and Draco shrinks away. He'd almost forgotten the old Headmaster was even sitting there during that exchange.

"You mentioned that part of the Bond was emotional?

"Yes," Potter says, eyes on Draco. "Do you think that . . . ?"

"My thought," Dumbledore says gently, "is that that portion of the Bond forces you to share your heavier emotions. It would, so to speak, eliminate filters in what you say to each other."

Draco blinks, chilly realization creeping up his neck. "So, say we were to tell a lie . . ."

"Most likely the magic would force the truth out." Dumbledore's gaze flicks over him curiously, and he meets the blue eyes with confidence. "But only time will tell for certain."

"Right," Draco says, his voice perhaps a tad bit hollow, and he just would really like to rewind to before all of this had happened, when he and Potter had exchanged only insults and didn't need each to do something as simple as live.

He takes a small breath in and out. It's not as if the topic will ever come up, right? Besides, he doesn't have to talk to Potter, simply spend time with him . . . So why be concerned over it?

"I'll alert your professors of the arrangements," Dumbledore says cheerfully. "For now, I would suggest working with your own schedules to make things easier for you both."

"Yes, sir," Draco mutters, going to stand up. Potter stands beside him and gives Dumbledore an easy smile.

As they step out of the office, Draco releases some air he didn't realize he was holding in. It's ridiculous, he tells himself. They won't talk. They've never been much for talking, have they?

"I suppose it'll be interesting," Potter says quietly.

"What?"

Potter smiles a bit at Draco. "Changing everything for you."

And he doesn't say anything else, doesn't decide to elaborate. Somehow, Draco thinks that he doesn't need him, too. Because something in his tone hangs in the air, like some promise lost long ago, a muttered apology when it was broken, returned by a warm embrace of trust, of forgiveness. Closer than that, Draco recalls an outstretched hand, two boys pretending to be people they knew they weren't, knew they never could be.

Maybe, Draco thinks, they've changed everything for each other before—and they'll keep doing it, for as long as they both will exist.


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N: **it doesn't make up for my lack of posting, i know, but here's the next chapter. please now that i love your reviews very much and i'm so beyond pleased that you're enjoying this story so far! thank you for your kind words and support!

* * *

"So, it seems our study group is growing," Draco says grouchily at breakfast.

"Oh?" Pansy says, arching an eyebrow.

"We're expanding to include Potter, Weasley, and Granger." Draco huffs. "This entire thing is ridiculous."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "You told me all about that last night, you know. But, my, Granger. I can only imagine what studying with her must be like." She makes a face of disgust. "She's so bossy. Honestly, I don't understand how any person could be that insufferable!"

"Bossy, hm? I suppose you were destined to be friends."

"It's not too late for me to leave you alone with the three of them," she says, voice low and dangerous.

"Right," Draco says, snickering. "She's awful. You two could never get along."

"You're an arsehole," Pansy mutters, kicking him under the table.

"Kindly, I must disagree." Draco pauses, then sighs. "But you can't seriously think that it's not a bad idea, can you? I mean . . ." He drums his fingers against the table in thought. "We're not all that . . . compatible."

"You are, though," Pansy says. When Draco shoots her a look, she shrugs. "Well, you're soulmates, aren't you? That's the point of it—compatibility. Maybe it seems a bit ridiculous, but . . . well, soulmates have been soulmates since the beginning of time. You've technically loved him for thousands of years."

"Not an overly reassuring thought."

"No? I think it's pretty amazing, really. Kind of an ironic thing, if you think about it."

"There's not a lot of 'thinking' to do about it, Pansy." Draco scowls. "He hates me."

"See, you keep saying that, but I don't exactly believe it. I imagine you're just . . . blowing it out of proportion. And trust me, darling, I do know all about the ridiculous little things you've done under my nose when it comes to Potter, but you're making it seem like you're eleven again." She frowns. "But you're not. And it's not exactly healthy to act like you are."

Draco opens his mouth to argue, but no words stand up. Pansy gives him a sad smile and stands up. "I wouldn't miss studying for the world, now would I? Even if it means studying with Granger. I'll most certainly be meeting you in the library later."

She turns and walks around, leaving Draco's mind reeling. What is he supposed to think, after all? He and Potter hate each other . . .

But, no, that's not right, his mind reminds him in a gentle whisper. He hasn't hated Potter in a long time. He never really has.

* * *

They share a Charms class first thing that morning. Draco catches Potter outside the Great Hall chatting with Granger and Weasley. Potter turns, muttering a small greeting.

"Yes, good morning, indeed," Draco says, scoffing.

"Did you talk to Parkinson?" Potter asks, deciding to avoid Draco's tone.

"I did," he answers stiffly. "She says, while it isn't exactly favourable, she'll continue to study with us until it's no longer necessary."

Weasley turns, not seeming to have heard anything other than Draco's tone of voice. "You sound like you've had a bad day, Malfoy," he says, smirking. "It sucks, doesn't it?"

"Ron, honestly—" Granger pulls his arm angrily, and Potter sighs. It seems this kind of exchange is rather common within the trio, Draco thinks. Granger and Wealsey seem to be in some kind of constant argument whenever Draco sees them.

"I don't expect this to be easy," Potter offers. "We've never really gotten along. Just . . . don't let it bother you too much. It's not going to change where we stand."

Where we stand. Draco shudders. Where does he stand? He started out in this for his mother, but now things have twisted to such a point that he can hardly remember why he's trying to reach his mother again at all. But all of it falls back on Potter, doesn't it? His father, thrown into prison for his mistakes at the Ministry, where Potter was; his mother, taken hostage for his father's fuck-ups. It all falls on Potter, but . . . he doesn't hate Potter. And that scares him, if even the slightest.

"Right," he says, hollow, and he turns and begins walking, not bothering to wait for Potter and his friends.

It's going to be a long day.

* * *

Pansy sees him at dinner and frowns. "It can't have been that bad."

"Oh, but it was," Draco says savagely. "Do you know how many people asked me what I thought I was doing, trailing behind Potter all day? And then Potter seemed to think I couldn't defend myself and he started talking back."

Pansy exhales loudly. "Come on, Draco, it's not that bad. At least he's not telling everyone the reason."

"Won't be long until they know, anyway," Draco grumbles. "Besides, you get to be part of it, now, too, you'll understand where I'm coming from."

"Oh, great, studying with Granger. Just what I always wanted."

"I'm starting to think you like her, Pans."

She makes a face of disgust. "As if."

Silence wraps around them after that, and shortly after Blaise plops down beside Pansy, wrapping an arm around her and smirking.

"Lessons with Potter must have been brilliant, then?"

Draco scowls, but chooses not to say anything.

"It could be worse," Pansy offers. "You could have to eat meals at the Gryffindor table."

Draco just groans.

Pansy finishes up and stands, pulling him to his feet beside her. He supposes he probably wouldn't have gotten up at all if not for her forcing him. Of course, Potter can't be too excited at the prospect of Draco being there while he writes his Potions essay, and the thought brightens his more than dampened mood, if slightly.

The day has been awful, completely, from the very first Charms class to the ending Potions class. Gryffindors spitting ridiculous remarks at him over his name, and sympathetic looks from Potter had just been the beginning. It got worse when completely spoiled his potion because his hands got a little too shaky after Finnigan and Thomas had made a mockery of him in the hall, where he was only saved by Potter snapped angrily at them. To which he was met with looks of concern and mingled anger by his so-called friends. House loyalty clearly isn't too big of a thing in Gryffindor, Draco thinks.

Potter and Weasley stand outside the Great Hall, clearly waiting for them. When Pansy comes to a halt beside the boys, Draco just behind her, Potter says, "We're just waiting on Hermione."

Weasley eyes Pansy curiously. "You didn't mention Parkinson would be joining us, Harry."

"Didn't feel I had to," Potter replies simply. He straightens as he spots Granger behind them, and she hustles towards them.

"Parkinson?" she asks, blinking.

"My," Pansy drawls, "nice to see I've been so greatly anticipated."

"Pansy, shut up," Draco mutters. "I don't want to fight."

"Well," Potter says cheerfully, "I suppose we'll be going, then?"

They all nod their agreement, and Potter leads them to the library. Few students are gathered to do their homework, and two Ravenclaw girls in the year below them glance up and frown, then immediately put their heads together, hardly stifling their giggles.

Draco scoffs and sits at the table, Pansy across from him and Potter on his left. Granger and Weasley sit next to a scowling Pansy, but she makes no comment.

"What was our Potions essay on, Draco?" Pansy asks quietly.

Rolling his eyes, Draco pulls out his completed essay and hands it to her easily.

"I didn't quite grasp the Charms," he tells her. They often trade their papers, and Granger raises an eyebrow at the exchange. It's been something they've done since their second year, when they realized that they lacked in some areas that the other was at least a little better. It's why they make such great study partners. Draco's always been spectacular at Potions and Transfiguration (and surprisingly not bad at Defence Against the Dark Arts), whereas Pansy has always excelled in her Charms work and Herbology. It's more natural, now, than it once was. Draco thinks that Pansy is a great part of his success in school (and he absolutely won't deny Pansy's grades are higher than they would be with him helping her as such).

Pansy reads over the essay and turns and incredulous eye on Draco. "I don't understand a word of this!" she whispers.

"I'm not the one who signed you up for N. .-level Potions!" Draco mutters, laughing. "Here, let me look. I'll explain it to you, you bloody idiot."

Weasley and Potter exchange a glance beside him, and Draco flushes. He, admittedly, had forgotten that they trio were there. Granger hides a smile behind her hair and continues to read her book.

"Not all of us are blessed to have had extra lessons from Snape," Pansy grumbles, sliding her chair over to peer over Draco's shoulder.

He rolls his eyes. "Not all of us are blessed with father's who don't make their child's teacher their godfather, either."

"He wasn't teaching then," Pansy points out. "Besides, he likes you more and you get better marks because of it." She shudders. "Unlike Longbottom."

"Don't tell me you feel sorry for someone?" Draco gasps mockingly, and she shoves him, a bit too hard. He bumps into Potter, and glances up, mortified.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"How do you two never get kicked out of the library?" Potter sounds awed, almost, and Draco can't help but smile.

"We sit far enough away, and we don't talk loudly," Draco says simply. He coughs and adds, "Also, we sometimes, ah, use silencing spells."

"Surprised she's just not afraid to kick you out because she thinks your father would get her sacked," Weasley mutters.

Draco taps his fingers against the table to mask the slight shakiness of his hands. "Yes, well, he's in prison, isn't he?"

"Er, I'm sorry, Malfoy," Potter offers. "I mean, it's my fault, isn't it? I was—"

Draco shares a baffled look with Pansy, then turns to face Potter again, slowly shaking his head. "I thought that at first, too," he says carefully, "but, I mean, it's been a relief for me. Perhaps I ought to thank you instead, but, well, really, it's not your fault, is it? He went there on his own, knowing what would happen."

Potter looks alarmed. "But—"

"No buts, Potter," Draco says. "My word is final."

And the subject falls. But Draco can see Granger hiding behind her book, and she's not really reading the words. No, she's looking up, and she's attempting to read Draco's face instead.

He turns away, but he can still feel her calculating gaze burning into him, like small needles on his skin

* * *

Walking to breakfast the next morning, someone grabs his wrist. A small hand, and Draco thinks it's Pansy at first, about to admonish him for leaving her in the common room, but turns to face Granger instead.

"Er, Malfoy," she starts, "I just wanted to, well—I wanted to ask you a question." The hand on his wrist falls to her side, and he looks down at her curiously. She seems to be shaking slightly, and Draco swallows.

"I don't see why not," he says slowly, and she seems to breathe again, quickly grabbing his arm and pulling him away from where a small stream of students are beginning to pass through.

"Look, I just wanted to, well, apologize for one." She gives him a small smile, and he meets her with only confusion. "It's my fault you and Harry were Bonded at all, and I don't think it's very enjoyable for either of you . . . I mean, what happens after this, right? I don't think Harry's considered it, but he's going to have to go after Voldemort, and, well, I don't expect you'll want to trail after him."

At "Voldemort," Draco stiffens. He hasn't considered it. What might happen to him when the Dark Lord kills Potter? He stays still and quiet for a moment, his head filling with all the potential problems that could arise, but he shuts them all down. He wants his mother to be safe. If he dies in the progress, well . . . it could be worse, couldn't it?

"It would have happened eventually," he finally says. "I do believe the magic won't rest until it's been properly established." He looks her over. "But you said you wanted to ask me a question."

"Right, well . . ." She looks at her hands, clearly embarrassed, then turns her gaze back up to Draco's. "Why couldn't you say it?"

He knows what she means, of course she does, and the answer falls off his lips before he can even consider what bad might come from saying the words at all. "I don't want to be my father."

She nods solemnly. "I thought, maybe. Thank you . . . Draco," she says, coughing and going pink in the face. She offers him a small smile before bolting off, and he wonders if maybe she's not so bad as he'd always thought she was.

* * *

Eventually, they fall into a pattern. It's easy, methodic. At some point, people stop talking. Sometimes Draco will catch someone whispering, but somehow the student body grew used to Draco and Potter in each other's company.

Draco found quickly that he gets along really well with Granger, after their conversation before breakfast that day. Old habits die hard, he will say, as he can't force himself to say her first name no matter how many times she irritably tells him to do so. And she's slow when saying his name, but he can't help but be touches by her effort.

It's been fifteen days exactly, by Draco's count, since Dumbledore insisted they do their best to make the Bond work. Occasionally, Draco will sigh and drag an exhausted Potter to the hospital wing, and they've yet to figure out whether or not the exhaustion is caused by the Bond, but Draco has a nagging suspicion that it is.

Pansy and Blaise have been the only thing keeping Draco completely sane, however. While Potter and Wealey could be worse, they tend to keep to themselves for the most part. Sometimes, Potter will engage in small conversations, but he seems to have some rather obvious reservations about it.

But Draco's almost . . . content. Of course, the looming threat of what will happen to his mother, to him . . . to Potter is terrifying, but he can't help but just . . . push it aside.

It's when Pansy finally asks him, "How do you plan to make this work?" that he decides he needs to solidify his course of action. And, to do so, he needs help.

Severus Snape was around a lot throughout Draco's childhood. While he had become frostier towards Lucius as the years had progressed, he never did completely leave. And for this Draco is infinitely grateful. Sometimes he thinks he would have much preferred Severus as father than his own father, but then . . . he shudders at the thought. No, Severus isn't the type he'd want as a parent. As a godparent, though . . . well, that's different.

It also brings great relief to know that there is someone within the confines of the school who's trustworthy and has at least some kind of power or authority. Not that Pansy and Blaise aren't wonderful, but . . . they can't exactly do anything to help him.

So, he's here now, knocking on Snape's office door after dinner, feeling perhaps a bit too desperate. He's evaded Potter by letting Pansy know that he needed to grab something from his dorm. Which wasn't entirely untrue, but it's mostly just an excuse.

The door opens to reveal Severus, who looks surprised to see him.

"Come in," he says, stepping aside.

Draco does as told, and sits across from Severus at his desk.

"What can I help you with, Draco?"

"It's my mother," Draco says. "I don't know if . . ." He trails off.

"I'm aware of the situation, yes." Severus frowns. "Your mother came to me shortly after Lucius's imprisonment with concerns regarding you. She said she had made arrangements for your aunt to watch you throughout the rest of the summer should she be targeted, but had asked me to see if I couldn't assist you in whatever might come."

"She knew, then?" Draco's heart sinks. He had hoped, but . . . it's not much of a surprise, if he's perfectly honest.

"Well, not entirely, but, yes, I suppose she did. But the task you've been given—"

"I can do it," Draco says quickly. "But I don't know how I'm supposed to get off school grounds."

Severus's eyes flash briefly, but it's gone before Draco can be sure it was even there at all. He passes it off as the lights, and looks to his godfather hopefully.

"I may be able to assist you," he says slowly. "But it would not be safe. I assume you have some kind of plan?"

"I—well, yes, but I'm not entirely sure . . . what would happen to me." Draco coughs, feeling his cheeks heat.

"Why would that be?"

Though it seems odd that he wouldn't know already, Draco launches into an explanation of the past month or so, and Severus nods at the end.

"I suppose we will need to research," he says quietly. "But in the meantime, I would suggest doing what you can to continue getting on his good side. Do remember that you are not a bad person for wishing your mother to return, Draco, merely human." He smiles waspishly. "Perhaps it is a little too human for us to put others in the face of danger to protect those we love. Be warned, it may not turn out well in the end, though."

Draco stares at him mutely, before shaking his head. "Right," he mutters. "Thank you, Severus."

He stands and walks out, and, if it's possible, he feels worse than he did before.


End file.
